Stormy Weather (Storm Donovan Book 1) (3 page)

BOOK: Stormy Weather (Storm Donovan Book 1)
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“And you kept your maiden name?” Donovan guessed, taking another sip of coffee to hide any possible betraying signs of ulterior motives.

“Yes. Well, we already had the business registered. Would only be confusing.”

“What's your husband do?”

“He's a producer. He just joined a film crew in South America; they're doing some stupid film about El Dorado and aliens! So I'm here keeping myself busy by going out with friends and by working. Otherwise, I'd just be traipsing around a big empty house all by myself.”

Donovan nodded. “I do hate an empty house. I tend to block that out with a good cigar, a drink and by playing some music.”

“That sounds like a great plan too.” Her smile was dazzling. “Perhaps I can join you for an evening of that sometime?”

Donovan was slightly taken aback by the proposal. “Sure.” He silenced the conversation by focusing on finishing his latté; buying himself more time to think. He paused, “How about tonight?”

“Sounds great. I have nothing else to do.”

Donovan looked at his Audemars watch and got up. “Well, Ms. Walsh, I think I will have to get going. I have another appointment as well and that one I do not wish to be late for. I certainly can't wait until mademoiselle is done entertaining.”

“Can't blame you for that.”

“Tell her she can drop by my office up until six this evening, if she wants our help to sort out this little spat with the law.” He pulled his jacket straight and made a light bow. “And thank you for the coffee. I'll see you tonight?”

“No worries. And I'll be there... as long as you tell me where.”

Donovan grinned. He could be an idiot sometimes, but that, it seemed, was part of the charm that made him so attractive. Never be too smooth. He took a pen and a business card out of his pocket and wrote down his address. “See you tonight.”

 

 

Chapter Four

 

Gregoris Sedakis himself greeted Donovan when he got back to his office in Midtown East. “I'm desperate for your services!” Sedakis still spoke with a thick Greek accent, even after thirty years in the US. Donovan reckoned it was something of a badge to the man. A mark of pride in his heritage and in the way he had come up in society in the US. He had left Greece when he was just twenty and had found a job at American Maritime Trucking as a dock worker. Through slow and careful investment and planning, he eventually rose from a dock worker and a welder to an owner of ships and harbors. He was the embodiment of the American Dream: rags to riches. Donovan liked him for that very reason. There had always been two ways to be someone in America. You had to be born to it, or you had to make yourself into someone.

Donovan had been born to it. Even if all the money he now had came from his own hard work, he had been born into money and privilege. He could only admire the man he now shook hands with and who pulled him into a big bear hug. He felt the man kiss him on the cheek. Another Greek thing, he knew. Himself, he slapped Sedakis on the back as heartily as he could.

“How are you, Gregoris?” He smiled brightly. “Hoping it's nothing serious you require my help with?”

“Not at all, not at all. There's just someone who claims some of the land the Red Hook container port stands on is his. Didn't challenge it previously, but since I have taken over, it's become a nuisance.”

“Who would be idiotic enough to make a fuss over land you own?” Donovan laughed. He was saying it with a bravado that he knew suited the man he was talking to.

“I know! This Denny Lang is just a louse!”

“Denny Lang?” Donovan froze. He was stunned. “You did not hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Denny Lang was found dead this morning.”

They went into his office and sat down. Sedakis gave him a curious look. “What the fuck happened?”

Donovan repressed a shudder as he recalled the impressions of this morning. “He was found in a warehouse on the docks north of the container port. Seems someone tortured him to death.”

Sedakis' face suddenly went blank. “What warehouse?”

Donovan had to think. “Pier 9B? Right off the northern ramp.”

He saw Sedakis swear. “That's on the land he's filed a lawsuit over?”

Sedakis nodded. “Since it's the harbor, I take it the FBI are taking this case?”

“Yeah.”

“You have a buddy there, right? Can you make sure he doesn't come after me over this? I was not involved.”

“I believe you. After all, why would you ask my legal advice on that if the problem was already taken care of?”

“Exactly.”

“Can't get Albert, my old partner, to stop investigating you though. But I'll tell him I reckon you're innocent in this.”

“Thanks.” Sedakis sat silent for a few moments, looking at his fingernails. “Well, I suppose the problem is indeed taken care of though. If he's dead, that lawsuit is goneburger.”

Donovan made a mental note of the slang term that had somehow made it into Sedakis' vocabulary and nodded. “His brother is out of jail, and they had a sister as well, at least last I knew of it. They will probably inherit and they might pursue the same course.”

Sedakis just nodded.

“Might be prudent to let me look over the paperwork.”

Sedakis took papers from his briefcase and handed them to Donovan. Donovan began to quickly look them over. There was a summary of the case on the first page and he read that in full before beginning to peruse the rest of the papers. It looked pretty plausible.

“So the claim is that the Port Authorities of New York and New Jersey gave American Maritime permission to build on land that was owned by his grandfather. The Port made the problem go away by paying him rent, but then upon his death, that stopped. Their father, who inherited, was a drunk and did not bother to take it anywhere and now they are pressing the issue, right after you bought the port?”

“Seems to be the gist of it.”

“I'll have one of the guys here take a look at the land registry archives. Check on whether their claim is valid. Can't trust their copy of the papers, of course. And I'll contact their attorney. I need to see the grandfather’s Last Will and Testament and see if their father prepared any documents. Once we have that in, we'll see about where we can take this. There are a few options legally. One would be to force the claim onto American Stevedore, who sold you the port, including land that wasn't theirs to sell.”

Sedakis got up. “I'll leave this in your capable hands then. Your old partner was investigating the death of this Denny Lang?” Donovan nodded.

“Well, I will probably hear from him real soon then.”

“I'll send you word about this lawsuit as soon as I know more,” Donovan assured him again. He offered his hand. “Always a pleasure, Gregoris. Even if the circumstances could have been better.”

Sedakis had looked worried and distracted the past few minutes, but now he broke out into his genial smile again. “And you, Storm. You know, the wife would like to have you over for dinner sometime soon. She's American so I had my mother teach her how to cook, and plus she'd enjoy your company. Come, come tomorrow!”

Donovan laughed. “I'd be delighted.” He wondered which wife this was. He remembered his divorce specialist had worked for the big Greek not long ago, so if there was a wife, she must be a new one.

Just as Donovan was about to finish the last sips of his coffee and gather his things to head down to the Jag, there was a buzz from his office phone. He looked out and saw his secretary fawning over someone who looked like a tramp in a fur coat. As the tramp and her entourage came closer, he recognized the unkempt blond hair. It was Justine Lavoie. He stood, walked to the door and greeted her as graciously as he could muster. It was only this morning that he bore witness to their pornographic display. He looked over the faces of the people following her, but there was no Naomh Walsh. “Miss Lavoie.”

“Donovan,” she said, barely giving him a look as she sat down in the chair behind his desk. His own chair. She swung her legs onto the desk. She was wearing shoes that would befit a porn star and a skirt that matched it perfectly. No underwear, Donovan noticed. He was quietly disgusted by the way the young woman conducted herself.

“This drunk driving thing. Make it go away.” she said as she pulled a spliff from her pocket and lit it. Her agent came into the office as well, but he dared not protest her behavior, knowing how tetchy she could be.

Donovan forced a smile. “C'est pas ça facile. C'est pas le premiér fois vous avez eu des problems avec le loi.”

“En Français, Monsieur Donovan? Trés bien!” the girl exclaimed in a delighted voice. There was a delight in her face as well. The agent stepped in before Donovan could reply. “In English, please. I've got to deal with this too.”

“Putain,” the girl snapped at him. “Fucking spoil sport. I hate you. Go away.”

Donovan suppressed a sigh. “Well, Miss Lavoie has had problems with the law before. This drunk driving thing might not go away as easily as we might wish. And it might be wise to clean up your act for a while. At least until the police have been round to talk to you. If they encounter a scene like the one I found this morning, they might not be as forgiving as we want.”

“Ugh, fucking police. They never let anyone have any fun.”

“That's the way it is, Miss Lavoie, and I'm afraid it won't change anytime soon, either.”

“So what do we do?” sighed the agent. The man was clearly at the end of his tether. Donovan knew he really worked for the Disney Corporation and would probably be under pressure from them as well. Though he could not be sure whether the pressure was to make Justine Lavoie appear as insane as possible or to save what was left of her image. He could never predict that when it came to the entertainment industry; everything was about publicity, sales and ratings. Personally, he suspected that the agent was as responsible for her deranged behavior as she was herself. After all, child stars who completely lose their way generally got too much attention in the media.

“Well, I have looked over the charges and I will go with you to the courthouse tomorrow. You are to present yourself there at noon and we'll hear the charges set against you. From what I can see, now it's a DUI and disturbance of the peace, which should mean nothing but a fine.”

“Good.” the agent said.

“I won't pay anything,” Justine Lavoie said firmly.

Donovan sighed. He could not help it this time. “Then you will be arrested and it will escalate from there.”

“I am Justine Lavoie, not some stinking piece of shit. I won't pay.”

Donovan blinked. “Well, we'll see each other tomorrow, noon, and we'll see what happens then. Right now, I have to leave you. I have another engagement.” His only engagement was with Naomh Walsh, who would drop by his loft sometime in the evening, but he could not take much more of this. He knew he had already slipped up, even if it was a slight slip.

He let Rachel, his secretary, escort them both out of the office and then he gathered his things and stood by the window. It had been a strange day, he reflected, as he stared down into the street. It would be another stressful day tomorrow. Though hopefully, without another horrifically mutilated corpse.

Donovan finally moved away from the window when he saw the limousine pull out of the parking garage. It meant his client by default had gone and he could safely run down to the Jag without encountering her again. That would be too much to stomach, to make polite sociable conversation with that little madam.

Ten minutes later, the green Jag raced out of the garage toward the Manhattan Bridge to take him safely back to Brooklyn. He drove into his building’s parking lot and swiftly parked his car in the parking bay labeled Apartment 3. He ran upstairs to his gym and threw on some shorts and a top and began his daily training regime. He wanted to complete it as quickly as he could; he didn’t know what time his guest would arrive.

He had tried to make out to Albert that it was no effort at all to remain slim and trim, but in fact, nothing was further from the truth. He was lucky in not having to worry too much about what and how much he ate, but he did work out and he did pay attention to what he ate. He took care to eat healthy and his exercise regime was designed specifically to let him keep a slim figure and made him look fit, without turning him into one of those guys that looked like they were on steroids.

And that was the way he did everything, that was how everything went with him. He was the master of moderation. He was suave and sophisticated, but he had long realized that to be too smooth would have an adverse effect on his business and social interactions alike.

An hour later he was done and he hurried to his third floor bathroom. Before he stripped, he sent a message to the cook, asking her to prepare food; he was expecting a guest in an hour. He jumped into the shower, then had a thought, stepped out and texted again. He asked his cook to make enough for two, just in case his guest would arrive before dinner, instead of later in the evening.

When he dried himself, it seemed his instinct had been correct. There was a buzz on his phone. It was from the intercom. He pulled up the video feed and found himself looking at the beautiful olive face and curly dark hair of Naomh Walsh.

“Good evening, Ms. Walsh.”

“Good evening, Mister Donovan.” her cheerful voice greeted him.

“I'll let you in.” Donovan generated an entry code to open the parking lot door for her. She would be there soon and his mind was racing to find out what he could put on in less than 30 seconds. In a corner of his mind, the idea arose that he should perhaps greet her wearing nothing but a towel and then continue getting ready as calmly as possible, but it did not seem the best idea in the end. He quickly ran into his dressing room and threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt. He did not look for shoes, only a belt. He would not bother to style his hair; instead he kept drying his hair with the towel. He ran down on bare feet and reached the bottom of the stairs just as the doorbell rang.

Still drying his hair Donovan opened the door and gave Naomh Walsh a cheerful greeting. “You're just in time, Naomh. My cook should have a meal finished in minutes.”

“Excellent! What's on the menu?” Naomh's heels clicked on the stones of the hallway.

“I have no idea,” Donovan smiled as he guided her to his dining room. “I tend to let her do what she wants. I have no allergies, no foods or spices I particularly dislike, and she is an excellent chef.”

“Excellent. If she's really good, I might have to poach her for some of my upcoming events.”

Donovan grinned. “Well, you could. I have no problems cooking my own meals on occasion. Just not every day. I'm far too busy most days and well...” He gestured around. “I have the money to hire a chef.”

“Funds for the finer things in life,” Naomh remarked.

“Again, well put. You do have a way with words.” Donovan showed her into the small dining room that was next to the kitchen. It was the informal dining room he used when alone. Through the door that connected it to the rest of the house, there was a lavish dining room, used for grand functions.

BOOK: Stormy Weather (Storm Donovan Book 1)
2.51Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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